Hi all
I'm changing my blog address to http://www.travelblog.org/Bloggers/Bundubash/
Hope you all still follow me - I'll be able to update more regularly now that we have a brand new laptop. Yeehaa!!! No more excuses for leaving you hanging there.
I've already posted one or two stories that side - lots more to follow.
P.S. - my nickname is bundubash
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Mozambique
The trip to Mozambique was not what we expected it to be at all. Probably due to the fact that we decided to wing it and didn't plan anything. A can of puncture repair goo for the slow leaking smoothish back tyre, 2 kiddies goggles and 1 plastic snorkel and having read Justin Fox's trip to Mozambique which he did 10 yeas ago combined with our preconceived expectations about the place without doing any investigating did not prepare us. Accomodation was much more expensive than we thought and we didn't see any crystal clear water to use our brand new pink goggles. We forgot to pack the 2 blow up pool lilo's to use as sleeping mattresses and Theo's glue job to the back tyre tube bombed out. We didn't bother with a map since we knew we were going to Maputu which was a straight road from Komati Poort and then from there to an island which Justin Fox mentioned in his book (amongst many other islands) except we kept forgetting the name.
Did we enjoy the trip? Yes thoroughly!
The XT's are pretty reliable bikes and Theo's is held together with a lot of grease and dirt . My arse was killing me after 50 km's of riding, not having done a bike trip for so long and not on a scrambler with a greasy footpeg. I clutched my pants around the calf area to support my bum knee over the bumps. Our trip was somewhere in the region of about 400km one way but we weren't in a hurry..
The area around Hazyview is lush tropical and we stopped for roadside lunch in the beautiful mountain pass and camped overnight in the town. Next day at a pub beer stop in Malalane we chatted to a guy who told us we could overnight at Komati Poort and that we'd get the best price exchanging Rands for Meticas behind the Sasol garage. We took his advice and camped that night at the border town. Exchange rate 1 - 3.7. We were tired and hot but I sat grinning as I sucked on the deliciously sweet sugar cane stalks which had fallen off tranport trucks along the road and which we'd picked up and wedged alongside the tent strapped across the handlebars. I didn't care about the juice running down my chin onto my Tshirt or that the 6pack of beers were warm within a half an hour or that the ground was hard.
Next morning stiff, aching and puffy eyed from lack of sleep, I wedged my bruised body between Theo and the topbox, rubbed sand on the oily footpeg for traction and off we went. We arrived at the busy, chaotic border not knowing where to go but within seconds a runner had spotted our white faces, introduced himself to us and R100 and only 1/2 hour later we were through both sides. Money worth spending if you don't know the ropes.
We'd arrived. Yeehaa! We passed buggerall for 100km's except bushes and the odd reed hut here and there all the way to Maputu but I kept my eye's peeled for the bandit cops who apparantly jump out from behind the bushes demanding money for fines which they invent. We were also warned numerously to obey the speed limit but we had to wing that as well since the tent covered the clocks making it a guess as to what our speed was.
We arrived in Maputu and slowed down to what felt like 60 and stopped at the first restaurant/bar to get 2 cold Dos M's, the local beer. Tasted good and R10 each. The capital city is big and not very interesting to look at i.e. I didn't see many beautiful old buildings except one or two. For some reason I expected rows of old Portuguese colonial buildings (some bombed out shells as evidence of old wars), cobbled paved roads and pretty Mozambiquean women walking around with hand crafted pots on their heads selling spices under coconut trees. I was expecting to overnight at a backpackers on an aqua beachfront sipping rum cocktails chatting to long haired hippi travellers while bronzed Swedes lay topless on powder soft sand talking their yurdy gurdy sing song language about spectaclar corals.. When Justin Fox was there 10 years ago he said there were turds floating in the ocean and Muslin men would lift there robes to take a dump right there on the beaches but I couldn't remember where he saw that but hoped it was more north.
IInstead Maputu was just another big dirty (I've seen worse) city with no historical magesty but lots of new construction underway. Rows of ugly delapidated flats overshadow the odd Mosque and the sea looked like Blaauwbeg, cold, choppy and dark. Everyone drives a 4x4 and seem impatiant on the roads but as a nation, we found everyone smiley faced and happy. Even the poor, simple people ecking out a living selling a handful of vegies on street corners were in good spirits.
We found 2 so called backpackers both charging a hectic R500/room so we ended up booking into a hotel parkhome on the beachfront at R500/flatlet, cutting into the budget but what the heck it had a proper bathroom and a big, inviting, clean, soft bed so we moved my birthday a day earlier. We bounced on the bed in glee, draped washing over the curtain rail and filled up the ice trays in the little fridge. We strolled across the road to the vendors on the windy beachfront to look for supper and locally brewed rum but couldn't remember the name of the brew.. Loads of locals line the road selling beers from coolerboxes and braaied chicken and pap. Locals seemed to hang out for a beer and a bite after work and the place had a vibey sort of Khayalitsha feel to it and we enjoyed ourselves amonst the friendly people but couldn't find fresh prawns to cook for supper. We jumped on the bike, headed into town and found the fishmarket by luck. Communicating is really difficult since everyone speaks Portuguese but English is hardly spoken. Theo jumped with excitment when he saw prawns (tiger prawns R80/kg), crabs, all kinds of fish, clams, cuttlefish, calamari, you name it they had it. 1 kg of prawns and 2 crabs clawing around in my backpack and wavey sign language sent us in the direction of the vegie maket in search of lemons, peri-peri and the elusive rum.. Some dude looking to make a quick buck decided we needed help so we let him, easier to pay a coupla rand than ignore his persistance. Back in our flatlet we realised there was no stove so we hauled out the gas cooker and with one small pot, Theo cooked us a delicious seafood meal with the air con running full blast.
The room price included breakfast - peanut butter and jam toast and coffee and juice so we filled up and left our stuff behind to tour the city. Thats when Theo's back tyre patchwork came unstuck. The repair can oozed out so the only thing to do was push the bike in first gear, Theo working his wrists on the clutch, up and down roads in the heat. Luckily a friendly Mozambiquean woman, Flavia, who spoke English, saw our dilema and left her market hair dresser stand to help us by taking us to tyre places and did all the talking.
Lunchtime we zoomed back to the hotel grabbed our stuff and headed the 30km in the direction of the island whose name we kept forgetting. We first needed to get to the town Marakesh something or other and then to the Island Makanetta or something like that. We found ourselves on a soft sandy road but smiley people told us we needed to carry on for 10km's and we'd get there. We slogged on in 1st gear past waving people and spaza type shops, struggling to keep the bike upright. A local dude came flying past (ok no luggage and only 1 up) but we were amazed at the speed he did on his 125 road bike in the soft sand. An hour and 5k's later another barefooted local flew by with a pillion, her sarong blowing in the wind and back tyre skidding as they zoomed by. Eventually we arrived at our destination and saw the tar road we could have taken. We knocked back a cold Dos M while waiting for the ferry and could only laugh at our eventful day, a birthday I won't easily forget. Oh and for good measure I managed to lock myself in the toilet while scrutinizing the bucket and jug flushing system and nealry missed the ferry. I ran out tying up my pants and waving at them just in time. Theo was hanging onto the bike wedged in between a 4x4 and a boat on the oily deck.
The island we chose is a South African fishermen's playground. Our first night at Tan A Biki felt like we were at some Gautenaleng resort. Loads of South African tourists (the only we saw) were there for the fishing and to kuier in the bar with a big screen TV for the rugby. Not our scene so next morning we explored the soft sand island roads and found Pisane Resort, (www.pisane.zar.cc bookings 0825629393) where the very friendly South African owner, Billy, transported our luggage, let us use the fridge, gave us charcoal, took us to the Spaza shop, even told us to use some of his groceries and he was cheaper than the other resort. We were thrilled to eventually find the rum Tipo Tinto which even though it came in a plastic bottle tasted yummy. We were the only people there so had the pool and clean ablutions to ourselves. We strolled down the beach to the bar at the neighbouring resort, lazed around the pool and ate devine Baracuda fish for 2 days.
We never got to see bright corals or exotic fish with our goggles but we had great fun with them in the pool. I was grateful the Maputu puncture repair job got us back to our bus in Balule where a soft bed beckomed my weary limbs and even thouth the trip didn't happen as I'd imagined, I enjoyed the element of surprise, saw a small bit of Mozambique and had a blast.
Did we enjoy the trip? Yes thoroughly!
The XT's are pretty reliable bikes and Theo's is held together with a lot of grease and dirt . My arse was killing me after 50 km's of riding, not having done a bike trip for so long and not on a scrambler with a greasy footpeg. I clutched my pants around the calf area to support my bum knee over the bumps. Our trip was somewhere in the region of about 400km one way but we weren't in a hurry..
The area around Hazyview is lush tropical and we stopped for roadside lunch in the beautiful mountain pass and camped overnight in the town. Next day at a pub beer stop in Malalane we chatted to a guy who told us we could overnight at Komati Poort and that we'd get the best price exchanging Rands for Meticas behind the Sasol garage. We took his advice and camped that night at the border town. Exchange rate 1 - 3.7. We were tired and hot but I sat grinning as I sucked on the deliciously sweet sugar cane stalks which had fallen off tranport trucks along the road and which we'd picked up and wedged alongside the tent strapped across the handlebars. I didn't care about the juice running down my chin onto my Tshirt or that the 6pack of beers were warm within a half an hour or that the ground was hard.
Next morning stiff, aching and puffy eyed from lack of sleep, I wedged my bruised body between Theo and the topbox, rubbed sand on the oily footpeg for traction and off we went. We arrived at the busy, chaotic border not knowing where to go but within seconds a runner had spotted our white faces, introduced himself to us and R100 and only 1/2 hour later we were through both sides. Money worth spending if you don't know the ropes.
We'd arrived. Yeehaa! We passed buggerall for 100km's except bushes and the odd reed hut here and there all the way to Maputu but I kept my eye's peeled for the bandit cops who apparantly jump out from behind the bushes demanding money for fines which they invent. We were also warned numerously to obey the speed limit but we had to wing that as well since the tent covered the clocks making it a guess as to what our speed was.
We arrived in Maputu and slowed down to what felt like 60 and stopped at the first restaurant/bar to get 2 cold Dos M's, the local beer. Tasted good and R10 each. The capital city is big and not very interesting to look at i.e. I didn't see many beautiful old buildings except one or two. For some reason I expected rows of old Portuguese colonial buildings (some bombed out shells as evidence of old wars), cobbled paved roads and pretty Mozambiquean women walking around with hand crafted pots on their heads selling spices under coconut trees. I was expecting to overnight at a backpackers on an aqua beachfront sipping rum cocktails chatting to long haired hippi travellers while bronzed Swedes lay topless on powder soft sand talking their yurdy gurdy sing song language about spectaclar corals.. When Justin Fox was there 10 years ago he said there were turds floating in the ocean and Muslin men would lift there robes to take a dump right there on the beaches but I couldn't remember where he saw that but hoped it was more north.
IInstead Maputu was just another big dirty (I've seen worse) city with no historical magesty but lots of new construction underway. Rows of ugly delapidated flats overshadow the odd Mosque and the sea looked like Blaauwbeg, cold, choppy and dark. Everyone drives a 4x4 and seem impatiant on the roads but as a nation, we found everyone smiley faced and happy. Even the poor, simple people ecking out a living selling a handful of vegies on street corners were in good spirits.
We found 2 so called backpackers both charging a hectic R500/room so we ended up booking into a hotel parkhome on the beachfront at R500/flatlet, cutting into the budget but what the heck it had a proper bathroom and a big, inviting, clean, soft bed so we moved my birthday a day earlier. We bounced on the bed in glee, draped washing over the curtain rail and filled up the ice trays in the little fridge. We strolled across the road to the vendors on the windy beachfront to look for supper and locally brewed rum but couldn't remember the name of the brew.. Loads of locals line the road selling beers from coolerboxes and braaied chicken and pap. Locals seemed to hang out for a beer and a bite after work and the place had a vibey sort of Khayalitsha feel to it and we enjoyed ourselves amonst the friendly people but couldn't find fresh prawns to cook for supper. We jumped on the bike, headed into town and found the fishmarket by luck. Communicating is really difficult since everyone speaks Portuguese but English is hardly spoken. Theo jumped with excitment when he saw prawns (tiger prawns R80/kg), crabs, all kinds of fish, clams, cuttlefish, calamari, you name it they had it. 1 kg of prawns and 2 crabs clawing around in my backpack and wavey sign language sent us in the direction of the vegie maket in search of lemons, peri-peri and the elusive rum.. Some dude looking to make a quick buck decided we needed help so we let him, easier to pay a coupla rand than ignore his persistance. Back in our flatlet we realised there was no stove so we hauled out the gas cooker and with one small pot, Theo cooked us a delicious seafood meal with the air con running full blast.
The room price included breakfast - peanut butter and jam toast and coffee and juice so we filled up and left our stuff behind to tour the city. Thats when Theo's back tyre patchwork came unstuck. The repair can oozed out so the only thing to do was push the bike in first gear, Theo working his wrists on the clutch, up and down roads in the heat. Luckily a friendly Mozambiquean woman, Flavia, who spoke English, saw our dilema and left her market hair dresser stand to help us by taking us to tyre places and did all the talking.
Lunchtime we zoomed back to the hotel grabbed our stuff and headed the 30km in the direction of the island whose name we kept forgetting. We first needed to get to the town Marakesh something or other and then to the Island Makanetta or something like that. We found ourselves on a soft sandy road but smiley people told us we needed to carry on for 10km's and we'd get there. We slogged on in 1st gear past waving people and spaza type shops, struggling to keep the bike upright. A local dude came flying past (ok no luggage and only 1 up) but we were amazed at the speed he did on his 125 road bike in the soft sand. An hour and 5k's later another barefooted local flew by with a pillion, her sarong blowing in the wind and back tyre skidding as they zoomed by. Eventually we arrived at our destination and saw the tar road we could have taken. We knocked back a cold Dos M while waiting for the ferry and could only laugh at our eventful day, a birthday I won't easily forget. Oh and for good measure I managed to lock myself in the toilet while scrutinizing the bucket and jug flushing system and nealry missed the ferry. I ran out tying up my pants and waving at them just in time. Theo was hanging onto the bike wedged in between a 4x4 and a boat on the oily deck.
The island we chose is a South African fishermen's playground. Our first night at Tan A Biki felt like we were at some Gautenaleng resort. Loads of South African tourists (the only we saw) were there for the fishing and to kuier in the bar with a big screen TV for the rugby. Not our scene so next morning we explored the soft sand island roads and found Pisane Resort, (www.pisane.zar.cc bookings 0825629393) where the very friendly South African owner, Billy, transported our luggage, let us use the fridge, gave us charcoal, took us to the Spaza shop, even told us to use some of his groceries and he was cheaper than the other resort. We were thrilled to eventually find the rum Tipo Tinto which even though it came in a plastic bottle tasted yummy. We were the only people there so had the pool and clean ablutions to ourselves. We strolled down the beach to the bar at the neighbouring resort, lazed around the pool and ate devine Baracuda fish for 2 days.
We never got to see bright corals or exotic fish with our goggles but we had great fun with them in the pool. I was grateful the Maputu puncture repair job got us back to our bus in Balule where a soft bed beckomed my weary limbs and even thouth the trip didn't happen as I'd imagined, I enjoyed the element of surprise, saw a small bit of Mozambique and had a blast.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
And Thanks for all the Fish
Back on the road we passed through a quaint English town called Haenertsburg and couldn’t resist popping into the inviting pub for a beer or two and a chat with the friendly locals. Some guys were planning a 4 x 4 trip up to Mozambique which sounded really interesting. That night we somer parked the bus on the open grass common across from the pub and if the owners were looking for a cook or a bar lady we would have grabbed at the chance to stay for a while. The town is surrounded by forests, mountains and dirt roads, an offroad bikers paradise. We’d reached the tropical region and the lushness was a welcome break from thorn trees and more thorn trees. A shopkeeper suggested we could camp at the dam the next night since according to her, the fishermen often pitched tents on overnight fishing trips. We tried but unfortunately the road was too steep for the bus so we moved on to Tzaneen.
Camped at a back packers for a night where some stoned dude came over for a chat about tall fishing stories. The next day we found the municipal campsite, right on the dam and that’s where we’re staying for the next few days. Cool place, loads of trees and all to ourselves during the week except for the odd ball family behind us who’ve been here a month. It’s weekend and some locals have pulled in. Yesterday a dude brought his boep and glass of klippies and coke over for a chat while his kids, Wit Rot and Arsehole, his affectionate terms of endearment for them, caught bass in the dam. He told us he was toughening them up so that if anyone ever teased them, they’d be able to take the punch. Today is Sunday and everyone has left except the group on the waters edge with the jetski who seem to enjoy Carika Keusenkamp’s virgin like crystal clear voice singing about Die Wind in die Kaap and some other sokkie treffer band singing about Kaboe Mielies in die Nag.
Theo caught 3 pan size large mouthed bass, which he filleted and smoked. We had it for breakfast – deeevine. Kippers se moer.
He also brewed a batch of his booze in the laundry section of the ablutions on Friday, before the weekenders arrived. The sugar water yeast concoction has been fermenting since Sediba, the Indian guys place, and was ready to be fired up through the kettle. Right now I’m drinking cherry flavoured vodka with a 98 % kick for a sundowner. Eat your heart out.
My knee should be sorted by the time we get to Hoedspruit where loads of lodges are situated for job hunting but today we contemplated the options of possibly going to Mozambique for a week or so before we seriously settle down for a while at a lodge. It’s been Theo’s dream to go there to eat prawns since we left home. A bloody far way to go just for seafood if you ask me but a stop off at Jimmy’s Prawn’s won’t cut it he says. I think we’ve both been toying with the idea since our visit to the pub in Haeberstsburg the other day, after which I hauled out Justin Fox’s book - Waving With Both Hands, which clinched the deal. He is a Getaway journalist who popped over for a month to do an article about Mozambique in about 2000 when the country was just emerging from its war torn state and things were looking up for tourists although the country still has poor infrastructure. We’re thinking of leaving the bus and my bike at Gert and Louisa (friends of family) who have property in Balule, near Hoedspruit in the greater Kruger area. If we jump on Theo’s XT 550 we could take the tent, one sleeping bag, our toothbrushes, small gas cooker, a change of underwear and a Tshirt or 2 and do the trip rough and ready, biker style. Now that sounds like more of an adventure than anything to date. So long as we stay on the main roads, avoiding potholes big enough to disappear into, and the odd landmine off in the bushes, we should be ok. Apparently greasing the palm of the so called cops is to be expected and Theo’s bike certainly isn’t the latest BMW range so mobs of kids shouldn’t find anything interesting to unscrew when we’re not looking. I’m wondering about ablutions. I’m expecting a bucket. Hopefully not the same one to shower as well as to take a dump. And the highlight – lots and lots of fish.
I mentioned our plans to Theo’s mother on the phone and I could hear the panic in her voice, mind you my mother reacted the same when we left home and told her we planned to go to Mozambique as part of our travels. She feared we wouldn’t survive a trip through a barbaric cannibal nation of millions of black people who will shoot you and cut you up into small pieces and throw you into the potholes and keep your ears for muti. She suggested we rather go to Namibia where it’s safe for people to go on holiday looking for a bit of adventure and less chance of getting aids.
Theo’s prepping the bike, and we’ll replace the tyres. A slow leak caused by those blinking thorn trees is probably not the most advisable way to travel through Mozambique. I’m off my crutches as of today so luckily we won’t have to strap them on next to Theo’s fishing rod as well. I’m a bit disappointed I can’t take my bike but it will be fun traveling together, wedged inbetween him and the topbox but anyway there’s no way I can kickstart my bike now and I can’t find my ownership papers which is apparently something you need to cross the border.
Can’t wait to fill up with fish and fresh coconuts 3 times a day. Yum yum.
Camped at a back packers for a night where some stoned dude came over for a chat about tall fishing stories. The next day we found the municipal campsite, right on the dam and that’s where we’re staying for the next few days. Cool place, loads of trees and all to ourselves during the week except for the odd ball family behind us who’ve been here a month. It’s weekend and some locals have pulled in. Yesterday a dude brought his boep and glass of klippies and coke over for a chat while his kids, Wit Rot and Arsehole, his affectionate terms of endearment for them, caught bass in the dam. He told us he was toughening them up so that if anyone ever teased them, they’d be able to take the punch. Today is Sunday and everyone has left except the group on the waters edge with the jetski who seem to enjoy Carika Keusenkamp’s virgin like crystal clear voice singing about Die Wind in die Kaap and some other sokkie treffer band singing about Kaboe Mielies in die Nag.
Theo caught 3 pan size large mouthed bass, which he filleted and smoked. We had it for breakfast – deeevine. Kippers se moer.
He also brewed a batch of his booze in the laundry section of the ablutions on Friday, before the weekenders arrived. The sugar water yeast concoction has been fermenting since Sediba, the Indian guys place, and was ready to be fired up through the kettle. Right now I’m drinking cherry flavoured vodka with a 98 % kick for a sundowner. Eat your heart out.
My knee should be sorted by the time we get to Hoedspruit where loads of lodges are situated for job hunting but today we contemplated the options of possibly going to Mozambique for a week or so before we seriously settle down for a while at a lodge. It’s been Theo’s dream to go there to eat prawns since we left home. A bloody far way to go just for seafood if you ask me but a stop off at Jimmy’s Prawn’s won’t cut it he says. I think we’ve both been toying with the idea since our visit to the pub in Haeberstsburg the other day, after which I hauled out Justin Fox’s book - Waving With Both Hands, which clinched the deal. He is a Getaway journalist who popped over for a month to do an article about Mozambique in about 2000 when the country was just emerging from its war torn state and things were looking up for tourists although the country still has poor infrastructure. We’re thinking of leaving the bus and my bike at Gert and Louisa (friends of family) who have property in Balule, near Hoedspruit in the greater Kruger area. If we jump on Theo’s XT 550 we could take the tent, one sleeping bag, our toothbrushes, small gas cooker, a change of underwear and a Tshirt or 2 and do the trip rough and ready, biker style. Now that sounds like more of an adventure than anything to date. So long as we stay on the main roads, avoiding potholes big enough to disappear into, and the odd landmine off in the bushes, we should be ok. Apparently greasing the palm of the so called cops is to be expected and Theo’s bike certainly isn’t the latest BMW range so mobs of kids shouldn’t find anything interesting to unscrew when we’re not looking. I’m wondering about ablutions. I’m expecting a bucket. Hopefully not the same one to shower as well as to take a dump. And the highlight – lots and lots of fish.
I mentioned our plans to Theo’s mother on the phone and I could hear the panic in her voice, mind you my mother reacted the same when we left home and told her we planned to go to Mozambique as part of our travels. She feared we wouldn’t survive a trip through a barbaric cannibal nation of millions of black people who will shoot you and cut you up into small pieces and throw you into the potholes and keep your ears for muti. She suggested we rather go to Namibia where it’s safe for people to go on holiday looking for a bit of adventure and less chance of getting aids.
Theo’s prepping the bike, and we’ll replace the tyres. A slow leak caused by those blinking thorn trees is probably not the most advisable way to travel through Mozambique. I’m off my crutches as of today so luckily we won’t have to strap them on next to Theo’s fishing rod as well. I’m a bit disappointed I can’t take my bike but it will be fun traveling together, wedged inbetween him and the topbox but anyway there’s no way I can kickstart my bike now and I can’t find my ownership papers which is apparently something you need to cross the border.
Can’t wait to fill up with fish and fresh coconuts 3 times a day. Yum yum.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Flight of the Bumblebee
So before you think I’m missing in action, or turned into a topless bar lady wrapped around a slippery pole, raising my eyebrows seductively at customers, I better bring you up to speed. We made like a duck and disappeared from the Indian dude’s farm before things turned sour.
The plot thickened when we met the builder and Kalvin’s protégé barman. Turns out he never got the environmental study approved, he made his money from whorehouses which probably explains his obsession with women and I bet you anything the hotels he says he owns are of the same caliber and he either pimps or is a slum lord. The burglaries at the bushpub were apparently personal vendettas against him and he is known to beat up people, even his wife. I’ll never know all the shady facts about the previous girl who worked at the lodge except that her stuff is still there.
We didn’t stick around to confirm how much of the above was true, but followed our instincts and got the hell out of there very quickly. I saw a side of life which saddened me. Proud, smiling Jethro works for no pay, but has a place to stay and lives on a hope that Kalvin will back pay him his wages and things will improve. Goggo goes into town to beg and borrow from friends when things get bad and Jacky left to look for food and never returned. The day before we left, Kalvin brought his 5 Zimbabwean immigrant workers from the bushpub to offload his fridges etc. He never returned that day so we found mattresses for them but they went to bed hungry not knowing what to expect the next day. We left on a sad note aware that there’s different kinds of people out there leading different kinds, some sadder than others.
My knee is still not healed, so job hunting will have to wait but we’re heading in the general direction of Hoedspruit area where all the game lodges are situated.
We stopped at Potgietersrus where I got myself a pair of crutches at the government hospital for R30 (hard to believe) and visited the museum so Theo could check out his hairy Boer ancestors, while I read fascinating remedies such as putting a dead cats skin, fur facing downwards, on your chest to get rid of flu.
We’re staying in Pietersburg, formally known as Polokwane which is in the Capricorn region which is in the Limpopo Province. Yip, quite a mouthful of names to remember but I’m surprising myself. The caravan park where we’ve been staying for 4 days is very quiet and has 3200 hectres of fenced off game park. We’ve seen rhino’s, zebras, blue wilderbeest, jackal and loads of different antelope species. Scrutinizing dung is fun but we’re struggling to identify trees and clearly need to refer to our notes about whorls, stipules and nodes.
Since we’re in a big town we’re doing some maintenance on the bus. Theo’s getting stressed driving around looking for parking in Pietersburg which is as big as Cape Town centre. Today we took the bus in to get the wiring sorted out and now we can travel at night, the hooter works again and the wires which dangle in his lap shouldn’t get so hot anymore. Tomorrow the bus gets a service. Still haven’t painted it yet since the fire bubbled a section on the side but I don’t see the point since the thorn trees will just scratch any new paint job and anyway I’m still working on a theme. Any ideas?
Leaving here in a day or two to somewhere or other.
The plot thickened when we met the builder and Kalvin’s protégé barman. Turns out he never got the environmental study approved, he made his money from whorehouses which probably explains his obsession with women and I bet you anything the hotels he says he owns are of the same caliber and he either pimps or is a slum lord. The burglaries at the bushpub were apparently personal vendettas against him and he is known to beat up people, even his wife. I’ll never know all the shady facts about the previous girl who worked at the lodge except that her stuff is still there.
We didn’t stick around to confirm how much of the above was true, but followed our instincts and got the hell out of there very quickly. I saw a side of life which saddened me. Proud, smiling Jethro works for no pay, but has a place to stay and lives on a hope that Kalvin will back pay him his wages and things will improve. Goggo goes into town to beg and borrow from friends when things get bad and Jacky left to look for food and never returned. The day before we left, Kalvin brought his 5 Zimbabwean immigrant workers from the bushpub to offload his fridges etc. He never returned that day so we found mattresses for them but they went to bed hungry not knowing what to expect the next day. We left on a sad note aware that there’s different kinds of people out there leading different kinds, some sadder than others.
My knee is still not healed, so job hunting will have to wait but we’re heading in the general direction of Hoedspruit area where all the game lodges are situated.
We stopped at Potgietersrus where I got myself a pair of crutches at the government hospital for R30 (hard to believe) and visited the museum so Theo could check out his hairy Boer ancestors, while I read fascinating remedies such as putting a dead cats skin, fur facing downwards, on your chest to get rid of flu.
We’re staying in Pietersburg, formally known as Polokwane which is in the Capricorn region which is in the Limpopo Province. Yip, quite a mouthful of names to remember but I’m surprising myself. The caravan park where we’ve been staying for 4 days is very quiet and has 3200 hectres of fenced off game park. We’ve seen rhino’s, zebras, blue wilderbeest, jackal and loads of different antelope species. Scrutinizing dung is fun but we’re struggling to identify trees and clearly need to refer to our notes about whorls, stipules and nodes.
Since we’re in a big town we’re doing some maintenance on the bus. Theo’s getting stressed driving around looking for parking in Pietersburg which is as big as Cape Town centre. Today we took the bus in to get the wiring sorted out and now we can travel at night, the hooter works again and the wires which dangle in his lap shouldn’t get so hot anymore. Tomorrow the bus gets a service. Still haven’t painted it yet since the fire bubbled a section on the side but I don’t see the point since the thorn trees will just scratch any new paint job and anyway I’m still working on a theme. Any ideas?
Leaving here in a day or two to somewhere or other.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Mozzies from Mars
It seems as though we’ve got rid of the rat but now we’re concentrating on the dam mozzies. We’d almost used up a whole can of Tabbard spray when Theo remembered that we had a brand new anti mozzie net packed in the bus somewhere. Great stuff! He hauled it out, hung it up above the bed and wala, things looked very omantic as soft white netting draped around the bed and I was suddenly in the mood for love. Excitedly we crawled in under the thing but wham, I looked around and felt as if I was in a Sci Fi movie with gross sores developing all over my body and an alien about to explode out of my stomach. I tried hard to banish these thoughts but they kept coming back. If I looked up at the circular centre above my head, I felt like a giant bee catcher. Theo on the other hand lay there going ne nene ne ne and pulling faces at the mozzies buzzing around on the outside.
Oh dear. I needed to recapture the moment. If I downed my whiskey it might help but the problem was that the bedside table was outside our safety net, and with the light on we’d attracted enough flying insects to start an arachnid collection. Should I risk opening up the side to get my drink or should I just suck it through the dam net? I managed to get my drink safely inside, gulped it down and turned to the cheshire cat lying next to me. Let’s get it on baby. It’s difficult being romantic with a moth the size of a small bat flapping madly entangling itself into the folds of the net next to your ear but somehow we managed.
I have to share a bit of useful information here. Did you know that the reason why moths circle around a light continuously is because they use the moon to navigate? As they’re flying from lets say a Marula tree to lets say a Black Monkey Thorn tree they check out the position of the moon and use it to get their bearings in the sky and orientate where they want to go without getting lost. Ingenious! Unfortunately they get confused with other lights and will circle and circle it incessantly trying to get their bearings. Like ok, here’s the moon real close, this must be north, wait a minute, this must be north, hang on maybe this is north. Wait a minute; I’ve just seen another big moon under this net bouncing at a vigorous rate.
Anyway bottom line, the dark side of the moon is more diverse than a chicken drumstick.
Oh dear. I needed to recapture the moment. If I downed my whiskey it might help but the problem was that the bedside table was outside our safety net, and with the light on we’d attracted enough flying insects to start an arachnid collection. Should I risk opening up the side to get my drink or should I just suck it through the dam net? I managed to get my drink safely inside, gulped it down and turned to the cheshire cat lying next to me. Let’s get it on baby. It’s difficult being romantic with a moth the size of a small bat flapping madly entangling itself into the folds of the net next to your ear but somehow we managed.
I have to share a bit of useful information here. Did you know that the reason why moths circle around a light continuously is because they use the moon to navigate? As they’re flying from lets say a Marula tree to lets say a Black Monkey Thorn tree they check out the position of the moon and use it to get their bearings in the sky and orientate where they want to go without getting lost. Ingenious! Unfortunately they get confused with other lights and will circle and circle it incessantly trying to get their bearings. Like ok, here’s the moon real close, this must be north, wait a minute, this must be north, hang on maybe this is north. Wait a minute; I’ve just seen another big moon under this net bouncing at a vigorous rate.
Anyway bottom line, the dark side of the moon is more diverse than a chicken drumstick.
Voortrekkers, Voorlaaiers en Voorname
Well I’m still enthralled by the whole concept of those Boers pioneering their way across the countryside. Life must have been so cool for the men but a bitch for the women.
The men sat around polishing their voorlaaiers, no one nagged them to take a bath, and if they wanted more than one wife, well who’s to stop them. All you needed was a decent beard, a horse, a kraal and you were made. They’d disappear for a few days on hunting trips, pockets bulging with biltong, and all the game to pick and choose from right under their noses.
Women on the other hand had it tougher. For starters, you needed to find a man to marry by the age of 14 otherwise you were considered an old maid with droopy tits. You spent your days rubbing cow shit on the floor, stuffing straw into mattresses, searching for termite mounds to break open to bake bread from the dough you’d been kneading since 4 in the morning, and then sew bits of leather together with a blunt needle to make trousers for your hairy husband.
Then the day would arrive, after your husband had consulted the Bible and found the message that it was time to trek north. You’d have to pack up your 13 children, Ouma, Oom Sarel, who slept in the wagon outside, your 2 cooking pots, a bucket of candle wax, sacks of biltong, rusks, konfyt, buchu and a clean bonnet.
The oxen would get ingespan and the slow trek would begin. Dangerous mountains were tackled by dissembling the whole wagon and carrying it over piece by piece and Willamiena Petrulella Susara dared not utter a “you want me to carry what?” At night Cornelius Paulus Gerhardus Steffanus Jocobus Ignesius Martinus Christoffel Lodvikus Hermanus Albertus Johannus and the other 12 children would gather around to listen to awe inspiring stories read from the Bible.
It must have been cool coming over a koppie, seeing a river running through a valley filled with bokkies and blommetjies and being able to say “vrou, dis nou ons plek”.
Life was hard, but they were uncomplaining free spirits on the African plains which is more than we can say in today’s lifestyle of washing machines, tarred roads, supermarkets together with hydrogen bombs, a damaged ozone layer, insurance premiums and a government who owns you.
The men sat around polishing their voorlaaiers, no one nagged them to take a bath, and if they wanted more than one wife, well who’s to stop them. All you needed was a decent beard, a horse, a kraal and you were made. They’d disappear for a few days on hunting trips, pockets bulging with biltong, and all the game to pick and choose from right under their noses.
Women on the other hand had it tougher. For starters, you needed to find a man to marry by the age of 14 otherwise you were considered an old maid with droopy tits. You spent your days rubbing cow shit on the floor, stuffing straw into mattresses, searching for termite mounds to break open to bake bread from the dough you’d been kneading since 4 in the morning, and then sew bits of leather together with a blunt needle to make trousers for your hairy husband.
Then the day would arrive, after your husband had consulted the Bible and found the message that it was time to trek north. You’d have to pack up your 13 children, Ouma, Oom Sarel, who slept in the wagon outside, your 2 cooking pots, a bucket of candle wax, sacks of biltong, rusks, konfyt, buchu and a clean bonnet.
The oxen would get ingespan and the slow trek would begin. Dangerous mountains were tackled by dissembling the whole wagon and carrying it over piece by piece and Willamiena Petrulella Susara dared not utter a “you want me to carry what?” At night Cornelius Paulus Gerhardus Steffanus Jocobus Ignesius Martinus Christoffel Lodvikus Hermanus Albertus Johannus and the other 12 children would gather around to listen to awe inspiring stories read from the Bible.
It must have been cool coming over a koppie, seeing a river running through a valley filled with bokkies and blommetjies and being able to say “vrou, dis nou ons plek”.
Life was hard, but they were uncomplaining free spirits on the African plains which is more than we can say in today’s lifestyle of washing machines, tarred roads, supermarkets together with hydrogen bombs, a damaged ozone layer, insurance premiums and a government who owns you.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Show us a sign
Yesterday evening I sat on the stoep listening to far away thunder and watched Theo skin his kill; a guinea fowl. Yip, he’d actually managed to shoot one with a pellet gun. He stunned it with the first shot, a couple more pots and finally killed it with a coup de grace head shot. Now he was a real man. All he needed to do was to eat the things heart while it still pumped and bury something under a tree or something to that effect but we settled for a whiskey.
Later that night the thunderstorm rolled nearer, drowning out the bloody rats scuttling around in the thatch roof. We’d been feeding them ratex, but I must admit I would have preferred leaving them a note saying “please vacate outside, we’ve moved in here now”. Instead, they chose a slow death and ignored the rat trap the size of a shoe box. I would have felt bad if they were cute little field mice with cute little whiskers but their droppings were not cute, they were as big as a duikers, and I didn’t fancy them gnawing at my toes after snacking in the kitchen cupboards.
I thought about the Cumulonimbus clouds hovering above. Yawn. I thought about the iced particles grinding against each other with such force that static electricity was formed. Too technical. It was just plain awesome watching the whole bloody show from my bed. The room and everywhere outside lit up as lightening streaked across the whole sky, followed by the loudest, rolling, crashing thunder I’ve ever heard in my whole life. Spectacular!
My knee is improving. Today I hobbled for the first time. I’ve been scooting around on a typist chair but it’s very limiting and I can’t go outside. I’m trying to make friends with the 2 forlorn looking horses visiting me on the stoep but Jethro just walked by and said “those things they must not come here because they kak hierso”.
I’m about finished my book. Really makes you think about our land and its Folk. Charlie, if you’re reading my blog you simply have to get a copy of James Mitchener’s, The Covenant. It puts many things in perspective about our parents who learnt from their forefathers. It seems that the Old Testament was written just for them, well and those Jews who crossed the desert in earlier times. The Bible (not the New Testament which was not relevant to them) guided them in every decision from handling their slaves to claiming the land. Thought provoking book.
Talking about weird beliefs, how’s this for bullshit. Kavin, (who recons we wasted our money doing the course cos he could teach us everything we need to know) told us that leopards have 365 spots and on a leap year they get an extra one. Whahaha don’t fall off your chair. Imagine leopards waking up on the morning of 29 February, males stretch, lick their balls and go WTF?! when they see an extra spot which appeared overnight on their goonies. Or, after a night of passion, the female goes oh my god you’ve left a fat hicky in my neck WTF it looks like a new spot. Or perhaps a cub goes up to his mother and says “mom am I still me, what’s this funny new spot under my armpit?” mother replies “no dear, that’s just a birthmark” but when her teenage daughter saunters up, shaking her arse, mother freaks out “what’s going on with your arse? I told you no tattoo’s while you’re under my care. Now bugger off out of here you slut. And so a generation of confused youngsters took their place in Africa. All leopards know the law which has been passed down from their fathers. And from their fathers fathers. And from their fathers fathers fathers. And it was passed on that all leopards need fear nothing, except Lions having a bad day and those two legged white animals who carry a fire shooting stick and can be identified by their strange hat. Let it be known that only when faced by these animals may any leopard run and hide in a cave. And let no leopard be struck down by lighting unless he or she breaks the golden rule, known to all, a leopard cannot change its spots! And so it came to pass.
Oh well. I’m off to supper. That guinea fowl’s been cooking for 4 hours and Theo says it’s ready.
Later that night the thunderstorm rolled nearer, drowning out the bloody rats scuttling around in the thatch roof. We’d been feeding them ratex, but I must admit I would have preferred leaving them a note saying “please vacate outside, we’ve moved in here now”. Instead, they chose a slow death and ignored the rat trap the size of a shoe box. I would have felt bad if they were cute little field mice with cute little whiskers but their droppings were not cute, they were as big as a duikers, and I didn’t fancy them gnawing at my toes after snacking in the kitchen cupboards.
I thought about the Cumulonimbus clouds hovering above. Yawn. I thought about the iced particles grinding against each other with such force that static electricity was formed. Too technical. It was just plain awesome watching the whole bloody show from my bed. The room and everywhere outside lit up as lightening streaked across the whole sky, followed by the loudest, rolling, crashing thunder I’ve ever heard in my whole life. Spectacular!
My knee is improving. Today I hobbled for the first time. I’ve been scooting around on a typist chair but it’s very limiting and I can’t go outside. I’m trying to make friends with the 2 forlorn looking horses visiting me on the stoep but Jethro just walked by and said “those things they must not come here because they kak hierso”.
I’m about finished my book. Really makes you think about our land and its Folk. Charlie, if you’re reading my blog you simply have to get a copy of James Mitchener’s, The Covenant. It puts many things in perspective about our parents who learnt from their forefathers. It seems that the Old Testament was written just for them, well and those Jews who crossed the desert in earlier times. The Bible (not the New Testament which was not relevant to them) guided them in every decision from handling their slaves to claiming the land. Thought provoking book.
Talking about weird beliefs, how’s this for bullshit. Kavin, (who recons we wasted our money doing the course cos he could teach us everything we need to know) told us that leopards have 365 spots and on a leap year they get an extra one. Whahaha don’t fall off your chair. Imagine leopards waking up on the morning of 29 February, males stretch, lick their balls and go WTF?! when they see an extra spot which appeared overnight on their goonies. Or, after a night of passion, the female goes oh my god you’ve left a fat hicky in my neck WTF it looks like a new spot. Or perhaps a cub goes up to his mother and says “mom am I still me, what’s this funny new spot under my armpit?” mother replies “no dear, that’s just a birthmark” but when her teenage daughter saunters up, shaking her arse, mother freaks out “what’s going on with your arse? I told you no tattoo’s while you’re under my care. Now bugger off out of here you slut. And so a generation of confused youngsters took their place in Africa. All leopards know the law which has been passed down from their fathers. And from their fathers fathers. And from their fathers fathers fathers. And it was passed on that all leopards need fear nothing, except Lions having a bad day and those two legged white animals who carry a fire shooting stick and can be identified by their strange hat. Let it be known that only when faced by these animals may any leopard run and hide in a cave. And let no leopard be struck down by lighting unless he or she breaks the golden rule, known to all, a leopard cannot change its spots! And so it came to pass.
Oh well. I’m off to supper. That guinea fowl’s been cooking for 4 hours and Theo says it’s ready.
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